artly she
assigned to it another reason. But her assumption did not receive much
proof from Gilbert's demeanour when left alone in the sitting-room this
Sunday night. Since Thyrza's departure, he had in truth only made
pretence of reading, and now that his mother was gone, he let the book
fall from his hands. His countenance was fixed in a supreme sadness,
his lips were tightly closed, and at times moved, as if in the
suppression of pain. Hopelessness in youth, unless it be justified by
some direst ruin of the future, is wont to touch us either with
impatience or with a comforting sense that reaction is at hand; in a
man of middle age it moves us with pure pathos. The sight of Gilbert as
he sat thus motionless would have brought tears to kindly eyes. The
past was a burden on his memory, the future lay before him like a long
road over which he must wearily toil--the goal, frustration. To-night
he could not forget himself in the thoughts of other men. It was one of
the dread hours, which at intervals came upon him, when the veil was
lifted from the face of destiny, and he was bidden gaze himself into
despair. At such times he would gladly have changed beings with the
idlest and emptiest of his fellow-workmen; their life might be ignoble,
but it had abundance of enjoyment. To him there came no joy, nor ever
would. Only when he lay in his last sleep would it truly be said of him
that he rested.

At twelve o'clock he rose; he had no longing for sleep, but in five
hours the new week would have begun, and he must face it with what
bodily strength he might. Before entering his bedroom, which was next
to the parlour, he went to the house-door and opened it quietly. A soft
rain was falling. Leaving the door ajar, he stepped out into the street
and looked up to the top windows. There was no light behind the blinds.
As if satisfied, he went hack into the house and to his room.

The factory was at so short a distance from Walnut Tree Walk that
Gilbert was able to come home for breakfast and dinner. When he entered
at mid-day on Monday, his mother pointed to a letter on the
mantel-piece. He examined the address, and was at a loss to recognise
the writing.

'Who's this from, I wonder?' he said, as he opened the envelope.

He found a short letter, and a printed slip which looked like a
circular. The former ran thus:

'Sir,--I am about to deliver a course of evening lectures on a period
of English Literature in a room which I ha